


Unnecessary

by plentyofmalk



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, nothing but fluff, spoilers for 3x17
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-06-03 20:23:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6624856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plentyofmalk/pseuds/plentyofmalk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Fitz didn’t dream.</i>
</p>
<p>

 <i>Which was why waking up this morning, one arm outstretched onto rapidly cooling sheets, was so confusing. Because he had vivid memories of things last night that he couldn’t have possibly done by himself without looking very, very silly.</i></p><p>

------------</p><p>

A continuation on the events of 3x17.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unnecessary

Literally speaking, Fitz was not a dreamer. The hours between his head hitting the pillow and waking up (too early, forever too early) were almost always filled with thoughts and images he couldn’t recall the next morning. He remembered telling Simmons once at the academy that his brain worked too hard during the day trying to think enough for everyone else, that it didn’t have time to keep running during the night. She, of course, had gone on about how _the brain never_ really _turns off, Fitz.._ and proceeded to go on explaining sleep cycles that he obviously already knew about.

The point being, Fitz didn’t dream.

Which was why waking up this morning, one arm outstretched onto rapidly cooling sheets, was so confusing. Because he had vivid memories of things last night that he couldn’t have possibly done by himself without looking very, very silly.

Fighting the urge to fall back asleep, he rolled over to his back and rubbed his palms over his eyes, shutting them tight before opening them again. Staring at the new crack in the ceiling, he could easily determine that at least that part of the night before had been real. Which would lead him to think that certain other events must have been real, too.

___________________________________________

_”A picture,” he says, bringing his hand up to point (and bringing hers with it), “Of space.” Her laugh is a reminder of so many things, like a song he hadn’t heard since he was younger when everything was_ good _and_ safe. _It makes him feel those things again, and he’ll do anything to continue her joy, so he keeps on. “One of my prized possessions, that is. And I don’t know why it makes a signifi--” She shuts him up with a kiss and he’s happy to let her._

_He knows that things are dangerous right now but aren’t they always? It doesn’t negate the fact that Jemma Simmons is curled up to his side analyzing data on the tablet she’s resting on_ their knees. _Sure, she may have only meant to rest it on hers but she’s so close that it’s on his, too. When she reaches out to balance it, her fingers brush his thigh. She has to know what she’s doing because he sees the small smile on her face even though she tries very hard not to look at him. He cannot let such teasing stand, and decides that the best punishment is obviously to swing his arm around her shoulders to pull her in even closer. He places a playful kiss to the crown of her head because he, without a doubt, can do that now. Her hair smells a little like shampoo, but more like dust from the chaos earlier. It’s intoxicating dust, nonetheless._

_More dust and debris fall from the ceiling, landing on the comforter behind them. It’s another grim reminder of the reality they live in. They hold on to each other until it passes because it’s agreed on that they are in this together. And later, when they return to his room after Jemma has seen to it that Coulson has recovered as best he can from the night’s events, she keeps one hand at the nape of his neck while she flips through papers with the other._

_If he wasn’t already cross-eyed from the evening’s reading material, he definitely was now from the way Jemma’s tongue --_ God _\-- trailed up his jawline just before taking his earlobe between her lips. He’s pretty sure they have never, ever been sensitive before approximately seven seconds ago, but she breathes out a puff of air when she giggles and now he gets it. Her laughter continues when he breaks away to frantically sweep the bed clear of rubble. Once he’s done his best, she pushes her way in front of him to cover the surface in three long sweeps of her arm. She probably knows exactly how she looks at this angle from his perspective right now, which is why he’s chosen to look away because he is a gentleman._

_Honestly, he’s is a gentleman. Or, he’s trying really, really hard to be a gentleman. But it’s been ten years and there are still a few key parts of her that he’s failed to explore, which -- speaking as a scientist -- just seems wrong. And since Jemma is having no hesitation at all exploring his collarbone (and moving south) sitting in his lap, he slips his hands from where they’re resting at the small of her back to slowly trek under the edge of her sweater. He’s just begun to process the feeling of the tiny hairs covering the skin there when she pulls away. Before he can apologize, she’s removed the item, which leaves her topped in a dark grey camisole and can a bra strap be sexy? Because he’s pretty sure it’s a shade of blue he’s never seen before and it definitely takes on a different hue resting against a freckle at the knot of her shoulder. She rolls her eyes and smiles in response to his expression, saying without words, “You’ve seen me in less, Fitz.”_

_(He had. Once, during second year at the Academy. She never let him forget how much he blushed at her in a bathing suit, and his traitorous brain never let himself forget_ her in a bathing suit _.)_

_She leans back to toss the sweater onto the desk chair and turns to him, the eyeroll gone but the smile still there. He can’t believe he’s seen her smile this much and the last hour, and he wants to feel it against his own mouth. He places a hand on her backside and the other grabs her shoulder blade, anchoring her. But he forgets that anchors sink, so when she slides down to meet his pelvis with her own, a moan escapes one -- both? -- of their mouths. For all his talk, suddenly his very smart and capable brain can only process_ warm _and_ more _before it shuts down completely._

___________________________________________

He sits up as fast as his body will allow in it’s current state. Favoring his right side, he looks toward the corner of the room where his desk resides. Draped haphazardly -- so unlike her -- on the arm of his desk chair, rests the marled grey sweater Jemma had been wearing the night before.

“You should be resting!” Commanding his attention, he turns to find her in the same grey camisole from yesterday (notably absent: her bra) and a pair of his pajama pants. Her curls are a little less lively on the side that had been pressed into the pillows and on his shoulder from the night before. The sight of it makes something swell inside his chest.

She pads over to his side, carefully carrying a mug in one hand and a bottle of what he can only assume is some kind of painkiller in the other. She sets the mug down on the nightstand as she begins to explain.

“A lot of the kitchen was damaged last night, so I thought it best to just grab one to share. Milk, two sugars, to satisfy the both of us.”

He’s sure the innuendo is not intended but he can’t help himself, “I’m plenty satisfied, thank you.” She laughs and shakes the prescription bottle at him.

“And you should take one of these.” Still standing, she hands him a small pill. “Muscle relaxer, for your back.” To illustrate her point, she brings her fingers under his white sleep t-shirt to rest on the spot he’d injured during last night’s blast. It hurts but he’s half-convinced her touch is all the muscle relaxer he needs.

No innuendo intended, honestly.

He takes the pill quickly, being mindful of the heat of the tea when he reaches for it. Finished, he grabs her arm -- tenderly, because that’s where _she’s_ injured -- and asks, “And you? Do you need anything?”

She looks at him the same way she looked at him so many time last night, eyes tender and with a grateful smile. That he has the privilege to make this look appear is an honor not lost on him in the slightest.

“Ah, no, I’m fine. It’s a surface wound. It’s itches more than it hurts, really.”

“Then you can come back to bed, is what I’m hearing.”

He attempts to drag her down and into his arms, but she resists like he’s suggesting something absurd.

“Now wait a minute!” She rolls to sit at the foot of the bed, making a valiant attempt to swipe at her heels, kicking off the ceiling debris. “I’m not going to be the one to drag plaster into our bed.”

Our bed.

_Our bed._ He can barely breathe enough to feign offence.

“Our bed? _Really_?” She looks up at him with light in her eyes and lopsided curls and damn if he can’t keep the smile off his face. He also can’t bring himself to care.

“When we’re both in it, yes. In any other case, it’s still your bed.”

“It’s _our bed_ , then.” He boldly declares, grabbing her waist and pulling her down to rest on his chest, atop the comforter. It’s not as close as he might like, but he suspects nothing ever will be.

They lay like that for several moments before she speaks. Her breath feels warm even through the cotton of his shirt. “Coulson wants us in his office at 8:30.”

He digs a finger into the corner of his eye. He knows the muscle relaxer will make him drowsy but he dares to ask, “What time is it now?”

“6:17, when I left the kitchen.” He can hear the smug smile in her tone as she moves to get under the covers with him. She wraps a leg over his own and settles onto the pillow space that’s available between his neck and shoulder. “Everything’s going to be okay, right?”

Bringing his hand up, he brushes the hair off of her cheek in order to see her face. Scratched, sleep deprived, and the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. She is his beacon, calling him home, remaining true no matter what the outside elements might bring. He was made to follow her. He can think of no other preferred fate.

“We’ll figure it out.”

“Together.” Her eyes close.

Her hand draws chemical equations on his chest, lulling him into a new kind of serenity he didn’t know was possible. As much as he’d love to enjoy the moment forever, he knows there are more to come, and his eyelids become heavier until sleep takes over again.

If anyone were to ask, Fitz would say he still doesn’t dream, because he doesn’t need to.

**Author's Note:**

> My first foray into writing, huzzah! I just couldn't resist the immense amount of good and pure in the Fitzsimmons world right now. Can you blame me??
> 
> I'm also plentyofmalk on tumblr if anyone would like to follow me there.


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